


The Bridgetown High Advanced Mathematics Society

by Quietbang



Category: X-Men: First Class (2011) - Fandom
Genre: Alternate Universe- High School, Alternate Universe- Modern, Angst and Humor, Boys Being Boys, Charles Is a Big Dorkface, Charles You Slut, Class Issues, Emotionally Crippled Erik Is Fun To Read, Geeks, Gen, Homophobia, Implied abuse, M/M, Math, Math Porn, Recession
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-20
Updated: 2012-04-01
Packaged: 2017-10-31 12:36:25
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 12,075
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/344129
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Quietbang/pseuds/Quietbang
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The one where Charles and Erik meet in math club.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Freshman Year

**Author's Note:**

> I am not American and cannot quite bring myself to type 'Ninth Grade' without wincing. I know nothing about how American highschools work, so everything that I get right is thanks to the charming and lovely Pookaseraph, who patiently answered my frantic questions like 'How would you insult a grade 9?' and 'What exactly is a sophomore?'  
> Everything I get wrong is entirely on me, obviously. Feel free to correct me.  
> This started life as a 6,000 word complete one chapter fic with no ending. Unfortunately, in writing an ending, my gratuitous math porn developed emotional depth- don't you hate it when that happens? As a result, this is a multi-chaptered work and, although not technically a WIP on my computer, requires so much editing and overhauling that I'm posting the first chapter anyway while I work on the others.  
> Each chapter will follow the same format as the first, and be roughly the same length.

_Ninth Grade_  
Stefan and Julia want to fence a rectangular garden. The fencing material comes in 1-m long units that cannot be cut. Suppose they have 20 m of fencing. What are the dimensions of the largest garden they can make?

_3:30, September 6th, 2008_

The Bridgetown High School Advanced Mathematics Society (aka, the Matheletes, aka, Nerd Fights- There's no Physical Contact!, aka, The Fishies, after one particular incident in 2006 that nobody with any sense and/or attachment to their genitals mentioned around the seniors.) met in the sub-basement. 

Of course they did. 

They didn't call it the sub-basement, of course. They called it 'floor A'. As in, 'floor below the basement but not quite in the cellar where the janitor hides the bodies'. As in 'Floor -1.5'. 

The school itself looks like a prison. Unfortunately for aspiring teenage stand-up comedians, all of the witty comments about how it seemed like one, too, to the vast majority of the 1200 or so students that graced her hallowed paint-chipped halls and peeling formica science labs, have already been made.

In reality, of course, it's good enough. Good enough to avoid state closure, anyway, and the prison-esque aesthetic is a result of post-war expansionism and the 60s public planning department's love affair with the miracle of poured cement, nothing more. 

The Fishies didn't mind. 

Technically, the sub-basement was the domain of the upper-level advanced math courses- Algebra I and II, pre-Calc, Trig, actual godforsaken Calculus, etc.- the entire geography department, and student services. 

In reality, this means it belongs to the math department. The 'conference room'- an empty classroom with a large table and several broken chairs- had been taken over by Mr Logan, who had posted the following on the door: 

_There's a big calculus party, and all the functions are invited. ln(x) is talking to some trig functions, when he sees his friend e x sulking in a corner.   
ln(x): "What's wrong ex?"  
ex: "I'm so lonely!"   
ln(x): "Well, you should go integrate yourself into the crowd!"   
ex looks up and cries, "It won't make a difference!" _

Coupled with the giant flaming skull, it made for a suprisingly effective deterrent against errant at-riskers who had been assigned counselling in a room that probably no longer existed and by a teacher who had almost certainly had a nervous breakdown several months ago. 

The fact that they have the floor to themselves can be attributed to that and to the slightly terrifying cult of personality that surrounded Mr Logan, who was worshipped by advanced math students and feared and hated in equal measure by everybody else, and who everyone whispered had done something in the Canadian Special Forces that meant he could probably kill you with his brain. 

They had made it their own, of course, and, as Mr Logan's policy towards the acquisition of furniture tended towards the 'I don't want to know where it came from, so for god's sake don't tell me,' school of education, it soon acquired a sofa, several battered bookshelves, a coffee maker, and a small, battered microwave that nobody would admit to having brought, and the only reason Mr Logan drew the line at the computer was because he had to draw it somewhere or they would never go home, not that that wouldn't be better, for some of them-  
(20 or 30 or a hundred years ago, a boy who is not James Logan looked at the friendly face of the recruiter for the Forces, and at the desolation and cold and hunger of the Canadian prairie, and did not think to ask why a peacekeeping force would have need of a boy who can do compositional functions without the use of a trig table.)  
-but there was a line. 

Right now, it was full: a dozen or so teenagers, all in varying states of disarray- shoes off, sweaters unzipped, graph paper and calculators vying for space with bookbags, mp3 players, and bags of pork rinds. 

In the corner stood two boys, their silence marking them as out of place in the buzzing room. 

A thin, blonde boy was talking to them earnestly, his hand waving in the air like pale spiders. 

“Oi!” A clear, strong voice cuts through the chaos. Everyone falls silent. 

Moira Kinross- not Mctaggert, never Mctaggert, not any more, and don't you forget it- is 17, tall and thin, with bones that promise to be beautiful in a few years time but are now only sharp and strong and serious, a laugh like a bell, a temper like a bull, and a brain like steel trap. 

She is, it is said to general affirmation, Going Places. 

“Rogers,” she says curtly, raising one of the straight black brows that will soon be delicately arched and strong in her pale, soft face, “I thought we said no more freshmen. You agreed.”

It is a truth universally acknolweged that there is nothing so terrifying as a person who is utterly sure of themself, but Steve just blinks and grins lazily, the 'aw shucks' grin that disarms old ladies and teachers alike, and says, “These ones are different. Not like Essex.”

Moira rolls her eyes. “They're always different, Steve, even that kid who couldn't speak English. I swear, you and your strays, you're worse than a five year old girl.”

“Just listen, okay?” he asks, raising his hands in supplication. “They're amazing, is what they are.”  
He jerks his chin at the smaller of the two, who looks as though he wants nothing so much as to melt into the wall, and who is almost entirely hidden by his ill-fitting sweater and baggy cords. 

“Charles, right?” Steve asks kindly. 

The boy nods. 

Steve glances towards the sofa, where a black-haired boy is sprawled, his hair artfully disheveled. 

“Tony,” he says, “Give me a problem.”

Tony raises an eyebrow. “You're gonna have to be more specific, dude. I'm good, but not that good.”

“Algebra or pre-calc,” he says with a grin. 

Tony smirks and stretches languidly. “If logb(a) = x and logb(c) = y, and 4x + 6y = 8, what is logb(a2c3)? ”  
A few people immediately knit their eyebrows in puzzled concentration. Others take out pencils and their graphing calculators. 

Steve nudges the boy. “Go on,” he encourages. “You know the answer, right?”

The boy nods. “4,” he says. 

Moira raises her eyebrows. The boy blushes. 

Irene looks up from her calculator. “He's right,” she says thoughtfully. 

Steve grins. “He's like a computer. Photographic memory, too. Besides, Mr Logan wants him.”

Moira sighs. “Then we don't actually have much choice, do we? What's your name, kid?”

The boy looks at the floor. “Charles Xavier.”

His voice is soft, and hoarse, and her eyebrows shoot a little higher at his accent, but she says nothing.

“You're Raven's brother, right?” Irene asks. 

He nods shyly. “Half-brother.”

“Well,” Moira says decisively. “Welcome to the Math Society, Charles, we're glad to have you-”

“-Only not really,” Tony breaks in. “But that's okay. Moira here doesn't like anyone.”

Moira sighs. “Stark, I swear to God, if you don't start acting your age-”

“-Age is a state of mind, baby-”

“-Stop talking.” she says flatly. “Please. Just stop. Who's the other one, Steve?”

“Erik Lehnsherr,” he says, and the older boy looks up, startled, as he pronounces his last name with the proper pronunciation, _Lehnz- herr ___.

“Alright, Steve,” Moira says tiredly. “show us what your new pet can do.”

“I thought we weren't allowed to make the freshmen into pets anymore,” Tony muses. 

“Nah, I think Coulson said 'slaves', I definitely heard 'slaves',” Clint says, smirking a bit. 

“Shut up, Clint.” 

“Make me, please, babe,”

“You're digusting.” Moira says flatly. “Stop it before I break your balls.” She turns to Erik. “Go on, kid.  
What's the smallest positive zero of f(x) = 1/2 - sin(3x + Pi/3) ?”

The boy is silent for a moment. “Pi/6”

Moira whistles approvingly. “Good job.”

“He's in the physics class I'm peer tutoring,” Steve says eagerly, “He's _brilliant_ , Moira, please-”

She sighs. “Fine. You can have your toys, alright? As long as you keep an eye on them when we go to Washington for Nationals. If it all goes up in flames, it's gonna be your ass on the line, not mine.”

Steve nods his agreement. “Thanks.”

“Okay!” Moira says loudly, “Now that _that_ fascinating business has been dealt with, allow me to call the first meeting of the 2008 Bridgetown High Mathematics Society to order!”  
\-------------------------  
 _December 13th, 2008, 4:25 pm_

cxman: where are you?

erik: why  
you need to change your screename  
fyi  
it's ridiculous

cxman: youre wrong  
it's awesome  
where are you?

erik : library  
i thought you had to go to that thing

cxman: that thing?

erik: that church thing  
you know  
with the wilderness and bonhomie and blatant homoeroticism  
weren't you supposed to be praying for a vocation?

cxman: fuck you  
i decided not to go

erik: i should avoid making the obvious joke about your knees hurting too much, right

cxman: you're such an asshole  
why am i even friends with you?

erik: because i'm awesome  
and i have skillz  
mad skillz  
3:D

cxman: right.  
point is  
i have dunkaroos and the first 2 series of who on dvd  
y/y?

erik: cool  
where?  
your place?

cxman: :s  
no  
locked out.

erik: did you forget your keys again?  
Idiot. 

cxman: something like that  
cut the act, erik, we all know you're jealous of my brains  
and boyish good looks

erik: go to hell 

cxman: you don't believe in hell

erik: you do  
:-) :-)  
where are you?

cxman:  
i'm at tony's  
in his basment  
eating his oreos

erik: is his mom home?

cxman: haha  
thats funny  
:p

erik: asshole  
what kind of dunkaroos do you have?

cxman: rainbow sprinkles

erik: fag

cxman: :|  
sigh  
* facepalm*  
ravens home next weekend  
don't say that where she can hear you

..  
actually, don't say it where i can hear you either

erik: fine.  
i apologise for insulting your desperate desire for cock. 

cxman: awww, jealous, erik?

erik: fuckkk you 

cxman: anyway, if you don't want my dunkaroos, you don't have to have them  
maybe you can't handle my dunkaroos  
you wouldn't be the first

erik: is that a euphemism?

cxman: ;-) 

erik: i don't want to go to tonys  
he's an asshole

cxman: yeah  
point?

erik: do you have your cell?

cxman: did you miss the part where i was locked out?

erik: right  
sorry

cxman: np  
we could go to your place

erik:  
...  
moms working

cxman: yeah  
i assumed  
[4:32:07]

[4:35:39]  
erik: ok  
the furnace is broken again  
just fyi

cxman: dude  
i walked from greymalkin to finneymore  
that's like 3 miles  
i'm sure that it's warmer than that at your place

erik: probably  
meet me at the library?

cxman: k  
see you in 10  
bye  
 _cxman has logged off._

\--------

“Seriously, Charles?” 

The younger boy shrugged, attempting to grin. “Shut up. I'm fine.”

“Yeah, until the part where you get fucking pneumonia,” Erik muttered as he pulled at Charles' wet sweater. 

“Take it off,” he ordered harshly. 

“Why, Erik, I didn't know you cared-”

“-I want to dry it, ok? Look- shit, okay, you know what, just- stay there. Don't move.”

Charles rolled his eyes, but obediently remained planted in front of the open doors of the oven, trying and failing to hide the shivers that racked his thin frame. 

Erik pushed through the his drawers roughly, searching for a shirt that hadn't been mended or torn- mama had taken his school stuff with him to work to wash, and what remained was threadbare and worn- before deciding, _fuck it_ , and pulling out the warmest things he could find. 

The flannel shirt had been too small for Erik for years, ( mama kept saying she would let it out, it was a shame to waste such good fabric) but Erik could tell at a glance it would still be far to large on Charles. 

He returned to the kitchen, where, true to his word, Charles hadn't moved. 

Erik thrust the bundle of clothes at him. “Put these on.”

Charles stared at him.  
“Just do it, alright, Charles? I don't want you passing out on my floor.”

Charles studied his face for a moment, a strange, unreadable look passing over his face, and then shrugged and pulled off his sopping sweater, revealing a large, blotchy red mark spread across his torso, already raised and tinged with blue. 

It was going to be a hell of a bruise. 

Erik whistled. “Nice. What, fall down the stairs again, Charles?”

Charles laughed. “Something like that.”  
He twitched. 

Erik did his best to ignore the curling feeling in his gut. It wasn't any of his business, it _wasn't_ , he'd only known Charles for five months, for G-d's sake, and he wasn't so rich in friends that he could afford to alienate the ones he _did_ have-

“So,” Erik said, aiming for nonchalance, “Guess you didn't lock your keys inside the house after all.”

“Not precisely, no,” Charles says quietly, his mouth twisting a little. 

“Hm.” Erik said. 

“Hey, wanna make jello?”

Charles gratefully agrees. 

They end up in the apartment's tiny kitchen, blankets spread over the meticulously clean floor, Charles having rummaged in what Erik has nicknamed his Bag of Holding- in reality a worn canvas rucksack- to reveal the dvds, a mini-projector, his laptop, five packages of dunkaroos, and the ever-present graph paper and mechanical pencils. 

They set it up to project onto the kitchen wall, and as they lie there in near-silence, Erik glances over at Charles, who is hanging on every word with baited breath. 

Charles believes. He believes in a world where intellect and wit can triumph over brute force and  
cynicism.

He believes that the universe is beautiful. He sees the world in grand terms, in equations and poetry and art. 

(He's bloody awful with the physical, though. For their own protection, Erik has officially taken over the actual _construction_ of their robot, which is currently comprised of several pages of graph paper and a tupperware container of components. They call it 'George' anyways.) 

Charles catches him looking at him, and he smiles, broad and brilliant.

Erik smiles back and does his best to ignore the sudden increase of his pulse and the strange, twisted feeling in his stomach.  
\-------  
 _June 17th, 2009_

“What do you mean, you're not coming?”

Erik shrugs. “Mom says we can't afford it. It's fine. I'll go next time.”

Charles flushes guiltily and thinks of his own mother, who hadn't even bothered to read the forms before signing them, and of his savings account, where close to two thousand dollars sits , the remainder of his inheritance that his mom or Kurt hadn't 'borrowed' and never returned, and speaks without thinking.  
“I'll pay for you.”

Erik draws back like he's been slapped. “No, you fucking won't.”

Charles looks away, but whats done is done, and besides- “Erik. Please. It's not a big deal- you can pay me back-”

“-No, I can't,” Erik cuts in with mock patience. “It's a losing proposition, Charles, so please, lets drop it.”

“Then I won't go either.”

 _That_ shocks Erik, for some reason, and he nearly drops his sub- kielbasa, sauerkraut and mustard, because his mother doesn't seem to quite _get_ that, if you have to bring your lunch, it should be bland and indistinguishable from that of the other kids, and certainly should _not_ be able to be smelled from across the table- (Charles buys his lunch, takes five dollars from his mother's purse every morning and tells himself that it's not _stealing_ , not _really_ , because he's under 16 and she _has_ to feed him something, even as the analytical part of his brain says _180 instructional days a year, that's $900, not including the interest that would have been calculated, $900 that she can't account for to Kurt at the end of every year, and his stomach flips around the poorly cooked hamburger as he thinks of it)_

“But you have to,” Erik says, staring at Charles like he's lost his mind. “You're- it's all you've been talking about for months.”

“I'm not going to Washington without you,” Charles repeats simply. “We need you, Erik.”

Erik snorts.  
(Sometimes, Charles wishes that Erik could see himself the way Charles sees him- his mind shys away from that thought, not wanting to probe its intentions too deeply.) 

“If you won't let me pay for it,” Charles says slowly,

“-And I won't-”

“What if we found you a job?”

Erik looks at him like he's an idiot. “Right, because those are just a dime a dozen around here, I forgot that Pennsylvania completely avoided the collapse of the manufacturing industry, lucky us-”

“-fuck you,” Charles says tiredly. “I'm trying to help.”

Erik sighs. “I know.”

“We could talk to Mr. Logan,” Charles suggests. “Surely there must be a fund for this sort of thing-”

“-No.” Erik says shortly. “I'm not a charity case.”

“Then we seem to have reached an impasse,” Charles says quietly, taking a sip of his milk. 

They stare at each other. 

Erik meets his eyes, and Charles feels as though a chasm has opened before him, like he's hurtling through deep space, like he's weightless but not, like the laws of physics no longer apply and he is lost and lord have mercy on us all and-

Erik looks away.

Charles takes a huge bite of hamburger. 

 

Moira is furious. She yells at them both, things like 'I should have known not to depend on _children_ ,' and 'I said this wouldn't work from the start, but Steve, Steve promised, and I believed him-' and 'Have you never been part of a team before? Because this is not how you do it.  
You're letting us down, you're letting me down, you're letting Mr Logan down-'

When she seems to have run out of things to say, Charles reaches out and touches her arm. She glares at him, but does not move away.

If it were anyone else, Moira would have slapped them, and he knows it. 

“M-Moira,” he says softly, consciously thickening his accent and slight nervous stutter, “I-I-I'm sorry. We. We're s-s-sorry. It-it's out of our h-h-hands.”

Something in her expression softens, and, after a moment, she even smiles. “It's okay,” she says finally. 

“I know you wanted to go. I expect better from you next year, though, do you understand me?”

They both nod.

The bell rings, signalling the end of 4th period.

She fixes them both with a stern glare. 

“If you think this gets you out of prep work, you're fooling yourselves.” she says flatly. “I gotta go.”

She walks away, the _smack-smack_ of her sandals on the cement floor echoing throughout the sub-basement. 

 

They spend the first week of July together anyways, alternating between the sticky heat of Erik's apartment and the climate-controlled cool of the library. A few times, Charles suggests they go to the rec centre, but they only have one free junior swim a day and besides they went once only to realise that, aside from the lifeguards, they were the oldest people there. 

Instead, they walk to the Magic Mart that doesn't check ID and buy as many freezies as $10 will purchase and still leave enough for the pack of cigarettes Charles is supposed to fetch for his mom and eat them in the dark in Erik's apartment, bits of machinery and circuitry strewn on the stained, sweaty carpeting of his room, an episode of TNG of dubious origins and quality projected onto the wall. 

Instead, they wrestle and fight and laugh and create, and Charles tries very hard not to think about the air-conditioned auditorium in DC where they are not. 

 

Instead, Charles finds himself staring at Erik out of the corner of his eye and when he is not looking, eyes lingering on his sweaty t-shirt that plastered itself against his surprisingly muscled torso, the humidty turning his hair curly and unruly, his eyes bluer than normal in his sunburnt and freckled face. 

He feels strangely grown-up, and he realises that this- this summer, whatever it is- is the end of something. 

He is still too young to realise that it is also a beginning.


	2. Sophomore Year

_September 12th, 2009  
Joe was driving on the highway. A car ahead of him was driving far below the speed limit so he decided to pass. In the first second he gained 5m on the car and as he accelerated he gained 1.5 times as much distance in each second as he had the second before. If there was 30m between Joe and the car he was passing, then how long did it take him to pass?  
_  
Moira sighed and crossed her arms. “All right, everyone!”  
The din continued unabated.  
From the corner, a slight _beep-boop_ alerted her to the existence of one of Tony's inventions.  
Moira steadfastly turned her head away. She didn't want to know, she didn't want to know, she didn't want to know. 

_boop0beep_

“Oi!” she shouted. “Guys! Can we get a move on, please?”

A slight squeal went up as someone shoved one of the sophomores off the sofa. Served them right. Everyone knew that the sofa was reserved for those 16 and over. 

Moira gestured helplessly at Steve. “They're not listening.”

“Want me to try?”  


“Why would they listen to you and not me?”  


Steve shrugged. “It's worth a shot.”  


He had grown over the summer, two months worth of road work broadening his shoulders and lightening his hair, and when he raised his voice, it was in a deep, booming baritone. “Would everyone be quiet, please?”

There was silence. 

Moira glared at him. “What the fuck?” 

He raised an eyebrow. 

“Never mind,” she hissed. “Guys, welcome to the first meeting of the 2009-2010 Bridgetown High Advanced Mathematics Society. In case you don't know- I think I see a few new faces here, so welcome to you guys- I'm Moira, and I'll be your president- to my left is Steve, he'll be our vice president-”  


“-actually-”  


“-Actually _what_ , Steve?”  


“Actually, I won't be here for much longer.”  


Moira stared at him, her arms dropping from their position on her chest to hang at her sides. “What do you mean?”  


“I'm eighteen next month,” he clarified.  


She raised her eyebrow. “Your point...?”  


“I'm joining up.”  


Moira raised an eyebrow. “Next month?”  


He nodded seriously.  


“Okay,” Moira said. “Okay.” She took a deep breath. “Okay. In that case, Steve will be my vice-president for the next month or so, at which point, the title will fall to Irene. If you have a problem and you can't find me- which you _should_ be able to, because my number's on the board and on the forms you all had to fill out- I've only got three of those turned in, by the way, and those of you under 18 need to either get your parents to sign them or forge them somewhere where I can't see you- go to Steve or Irene, and they will help you out. Tony- that's the asshole in the corner with the robot, in case you don't know him by sight or reputation yet- is our treasurer, you're gonna pay him your dues and he's also in charge of travel bursaries, talk to him if you need it. Scott's our travel coordinator, he's the guy who's buying your bus tickets for nationals- do not piss him off or he'll send you to Albuquerque. We'll be holding a vote for sophomore and junior reps at the end of the meeting, let me know if you're interested- your jobs will be to wrangle the other kids in your year and make sure that they all get to practice on time on a reasonably regular basis- and yes, you are authorised to use force if necessary. Does anyone have any questions?”

There was a general murmur of 'no', 'not really', and 'thanks, Moira.'  
“Good. In that case-”

 _MRAOW_  
“What?”

There was shuffling in the corner. Moira turned to glare at them. “Who was that?”

Silence. 

_MRAOW!_

Moira took a step closer. Several 10th graders took a step back until only two remained, one standing slightly in front of the other.  
The larger kid- Rick? Ryan?- scowled at her and nudged the smaller one, whose hands were occupied inside his baggy wool sweater.  
Moira draws herself up to her full height- which isn't much, but it's still more than a couple of gawky 15 year olds who haven't hit their growth spurt, thank you very much- and opens her mouth, not sure as to what is about to come out, hoping against hope that it's something stern and assertive, something that Principal Fury or Mr Logan would say- and instead, to her horror, finds herself saying, in a slightly peevish tone. “Seriously, guys? What have you got there?”  


The smaller boy looks down at his feet and mumbles something inaudibly.  


“Sorry?” She says.  


“Ic-couldn'tjustleavehimonther-road,” the kid mumbles again, slightly louder this time.  


“Leave what on the road?”  


The kid shrugs. Charles, that's his name, one of Rodger's prodigies from last year, though you wouldn't know it- he seems just as scared of her as the other noobs.  


(Moira has, throughout her high school career, carefully cultivated a reputation for being attractive, personable, intelligent, self-possessed, and utterly intolerant of bullshit. She's had to.  


She and Steve made a joint pact, back in middle school, to join the forces. Steve just wanted to get out, she thinks- but Moira? Moira wants to see the stars, and she did her research, and ever since has maintained a 3.8 GPA, taken every physical science class she could get her hands on and some she had to do through the mail, been the star track athlete three years running, and ruled the Math Society with an iron fist.

Tony- who even at 12 had been far more cynical and self-possessed than either of them- has smirked and laughed at the idea of Steve or Moira going very far in the military.  


Steve had blushed, and Moira had punched him.)  
The other boy- _Erik_ , Erik Lehnsherr, that's who it is, of course it is- pokes him. “Go on, Charles,”  
Charles shoves his hands deeper inside his sweater and pulls out- something. A small, wet, furry something.

It mewls pitifully. 

“What's that?” Moira asks. 

“It'sac-cat?” He mumbles. His stutter seems to have lessened over the summer, but he hasn't grown very much. Standing next to Lehnsherr, who must be at least 5'10'', he looks like a child. 

“Why the _hell_ would you bring a cat here?”

The boy looks at Lehnsherr hopefully, who sighs. “We found it on lunch. It was hurt- we couldn't just leave it!”  


Moira wrinkles her eyebrow. “ _Where_ has it been for the last two hours?”

“Charles' locker.”

“You kept a _cat_ in a locker?”  


“What were we supposed to do with it?”  


“I don't know!” she snaps, and reaches a hand up to rub her eyes. “Just- get it out of here. You're both excused. Be here Wednesday morning, 8 AM sharp- and get your dang forms signed!”

Charles nods fervently. Lehnsherr rolls his eyes.  


They both exit quickly, Charles speaking urgently to Erik, who seems to be saying something comforting, because he claps the smaller boy on the shoulder in a gesture of manly reassurance. 

“Right!” Moira turns back to the rest of the students, who'd been watching dumbstruck as the scene played out. “Time to get a move on.”  
~~  
 _December 19th, 2009_  
[13:02:17]  
cxman: hey 

erik: hey  
sup

cxman: nm  
raven's home

erik: i know, asshole  
you told me last week

cxman: yeah  
i think she's leaving, though

erik: y?

cxman: she's fighting w/mum

can i come over?

erik: nah  
mom's not feeling well.

cxman: whats wrong?

erik: she's been kinda sick lately.  
don't know. 

[14:19:09]  
erik: i think we're moving again

cxman: :s ?

erik: they're cutting hours @ the factory  
mom's down to like, 28/week  
not fucking good

cxman: sorry

erik: not your fault

cxman: marko's an asshole  
i could hack into his computer  
it's prob automated  
reassign her or something

erik: pretty sure that's fraud  
and if you go to jail, i can't bail you out. 

charles: yeah  
and it's not like he's the owner or something  
just middle management  
i don't think he has that much power

erik: no  
if he did, he'd be a lot less angry

cxman:  
actually, i think he just has a small cock. 

erik:  
rolfmao  
there's a joke here somewhere

cxman:  
i'd appreciate it if you;d ignore it. 

erik:  
for you? anything. :p

cxman:  
aww, you're so sweet. *rolls eyes*

erik:  
why are they fighting?\

cxman:  
the usual.

erik:  
please, charles, be a bit more vague- there was almost some meaning there.  
cxman:  
fuck you  
mum thinks she 'encourages me' 

erik: what the fuck does that mean?

cxman: i made her a cake.  
apparently that's not on the list of 'acceptable' charles activities

erik: what is on the list?

cxman: **shrugs**  
sports mainly.  
drinking  
smoking  
i dunno, cock-fighting?  
i don't know what the fuck happens in her head.  
bitch. 

erik: so glad you said it  
and not me  
you get butthurt when i say it. 

cxman: you wouldn't like it if i called your mother a c**t

erik: nice self-censorship. 

cxman: raven says it's misogynist and i shouldn’t use it.  
erik: see what happens when we let them go to c college?  
they get all uppity. 

cxman: she's at theatre school.  
does that even count?

erik: better than sociology.  
probably.  
besides, you wouldn't say that about my mother. she loves you. she wants to adopt you and feed you and swaddle you in flannel.  
she thinks, you're, like  
a hedgehog  
a hedgehog made of jam

cxman: that doesn't make any sense  
erik: it doesn't have to.  
i;m still right. 

cxman: ooookaaay

[14:23:31]

cxman: can i tell you something?

erik: ...  
yeeeah?

cxman: you have to promise not to get mad.  
and not to punch me in the face.  
or hate me.  
actually, you can get mad if you want.  
just, like, don't punch me in the face.  
please. 

erik: did you fuck my mom or something?

cxman: um, kind of?

erik: o_o  
you 'kind of' fucked my mom?

cxman: no!  
nonononono  
i just meant.  
um.

erik: yeah...

cxman: do you promise?

erik: what are we, twelve? yes, i fucking promise. 

cxman:  
right  
so  
i'm kind of gay?

erik: ..  
and?  
your point?

cxman: um, that's it?

erik:  
dude.  
i kinda figured. 

cxman: what?

erik: you stared at steve rodgers doing construction work, like, every day, charles.  
i'm not _blind_. 

cxman: everyone stares at steve.  
that's not...

erik: ;)

cxman: could you take this, like, a little bit seriously?  
it's kind of a big deal. 

erik: sorry  
am i the only one who knows?

cxman: well  
raven does  
and everyone on the bsg message board. 

erik:  
nerd

hey, does this mean i get to make fun of you for that, now?

cxman: ...  
is there any point in saying 'no'?

erik: not really. :)

cxman: fuck you, dude.  
erik: sorry, not into that.  
oh, this is going to be fun. 

cxman: _|_  
erik: what's perpendicular?  
cxman: it was a middle finger, asshole.  
erik: :d  
~~  
 _December 24th, 2009_

“Erik, you didn't need to-”  


“-Shut up,” Erik ordered roughly. “I wanted to. Ok?”  


Charles sighed. “But-”  


“-Dude. It's a present. Just stop already.”  


They were sprawled on the floor of Erik's room- well, technically on the floor of the _only_ bedroom in their new apartment, and Erik wasn't sure if mama thought he was too stupid to notice or too selfish to care- in their boxers and t-shirts, their snow-sodden clothes hung to dry in front of the old iron radiator. It filled the apartment with the scent of damp wool and fabric softener.

“You don't even celebrate Christmas!”

“You do,” Erik shrugged, as though it were that simple. “Besides, it's not only for you, as such.”

Charles rolled his eyes, but that seemed to mollify him, the cheap bastard. Didn't he get that when someone gives you a present, you're supposed to be grateful?

He carefully began to tear off the wrapping paper- several layers of newspaper comic strips, layered over each other. It was pretty cool, if he may say so himself. (Erik most definitely did _not_ see that tip on Art Attack. Nope. And besides, if he _did_ , it was only because the kid he was babysitting was obsessed with it, not because Erik actually enjoyed the program or anything.)  
to reveal a large Tupperware container full of Mechano. 

“Seriously?” he squealed. “That's awesome!”

Erik smirked. “I know.”

“Where did you get it?”  


“The McKinley's were having a yard sale. I figured you'd like it.”  


“Like it? It- Erik, _thank you_.”  


He sounded so sincere that Erik couldn't even bring himself to make a crude joke.  


“Honestly, I was half-expecting it to be a massive pink dildo or something.”  


Erik grinned. “Of course not, Charles, what do you take me for?”  


“-Well, I didn't think-”  


“-The dildo's for after New Year's, of course.”  


~~  
 _June 28th, 2010_

“Oi!” Mr Logan called above the din of excited teenagers. Everyone instantly fell silent.  


“Where's Xavier? Anyone seen him?”

“I'm right here!” Charles called as he raced into the terminal. “Sorry I'm l-l-l-late, guys!”  


He searched the crowd of kids anxiously for Erik, and spotted him. It wasn't terribly difficult- Erik had grown a good three inches over the last year and towered over the other sophomores.  


As he scurried over, he began covertly adjusting his hoodie and jeans. 

“Seriously, Charles?” Erik muttered as soon as he was close enough.  


“What?”  


“You're not fooling anyone,” Erik said quietly, his mouth tensing.  


“I'm not trying to fool anyone.”  


Erik raised an eyebrow and jerked his chin towards the sweater.  


“It's 6 in the morning! It's freezing!”  


Erik rolled his eyes. “Right. Are you sure you didn't fall down the stairs?”  


Charles scowled at him. “I'm fine.”  


“Sure. That's why you're about to snap, your muscles are so tight.”  


Charles raised an eyebrow. “Well, la-di-da. W-w-when did you get good with f-feelings?”

“You're stuttering,” Erik pointed out quietly.  


Charles glared at him. It was true, he never stuttered anymore, not around Erik, at least- actually he hadn't _ever_ really stuttered around Erik, not since those first days-  


“Later,” he hissed. “Mr Logan's talking.” 

An hour later, they were all seated on the plane. Erik glanced to his left, where a sleeping Kitty Pryde was curled tightly into a ball, then leaned over.  


“So what's jammed up your ass?”  


Charles shrugged. He glanced at Erik, once, and pretended not to notice Erik doing the same.  


“I think I got disowned.”

“You _what_? Do you want me to kill them? Because I can- how do you know?”  


Charles laughed hollowly. “Well, the part where they said that they only have one son from now on, that would have been my first clue.”  


“Technically, they each only have one son, anyway,” Erik felt compelled to point out.  


Charles attempted a smirk. “Yes, but I think they meant Cain. After all, he's a goddamned _hero_ , doesn't matter that I'm the only one who sticks around, doesn't matter that he hates their guts...”He trailed off with a horrible, choking sound.  


“Are you sure?”  


“Yes I'm fucking _sure_ ,” Charles snapped.  


“Yeah, but, see, the thing is- they have to fill out, like, forms and shit- they can't just say 'you're disowned', and that's that. They have to have a judge sign off on it.”  


“Oh,” Charles said quietly.  


“What did you do?”  


Charles shut his eyes. “What do you think? Mum found my journal.”  


“Bitch,” Erik swore, and then, “Wait, you have a _diary_? Oh my god, do you listen to Miley Cyrus too?”  


“I'm not in the mood, Erik.”  


“Sorry,” Erik said quietly. Then- “Um. Is there anything I can do to help?”  


Charles shook his head wordlessly. “Can we just drop the subject, please?”  


“Yeah, ok.”  


There was silence for a few minutes.  


“Want to do prep?” he said after a while.  


“Please,” Charles said fervently. And if, after an hour, the graph paper on his tray was wrinkled and smeared with the ghosts of drops of water- well, he wasn't telling. 

Just before they land, Erik leans over and whispers to him. “Let's win this, ok? We can show them.”  


“Show them _what_?”  


“That you're better than them.”  


“Erik...”  


“Hey,” he silenced him with a wave of his finger. “Can _Kurt_ do the cross-product of R 3 vectors in his head?

”

Charles shrugged. 

“Well, can he?”

“Probably not?” Charles guessed. 

Erik smirked. “Exactly.”  


Then, glancing around to make sure that no-one was watching, he darted over and kissed his cheek. 

Charles genuinely does not remember the last twenty minutes of the flight. 

(They don't win, incidentally, but they come damn close, and Erik doesn't try and kiss him again- but on the following Sunday, when they line up on stage to collect their third place trophy, Erik catches his eye from across the group and mouths ' _fuck them_ ', and Charles stares into the crowd of flashbulbs and grins wide.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay, guys, my life _exploded_ and I had a minor nervous breakdown Just a small one, though. Updates should resume at their regular, weekly-ish pace on all my fics. 
> 
> :)
> 
> (Also, I want it noted that everything Charles tells the club about in the first scene are _actual things that happened_ at my high school or those of my friends. Nothing quite beats having to explain to a bunch of nerdy 14 year olds that although, yes, _you_ see the humour in changing the Chaplain's homepage to scatlovers.com, you're not sure that he does, and that they did a shitty job of covering their tracks.)

_Betty and Tracy planned a 5000km trip in an automobile with five tires, of which four are in use at any time. They plan to interchange them so that each tire is used the same number of kilometres. What is the number of kilometres each tire will be used?_

_September 12, 2010_

It was strange, being here without Moira. 

It's not that Kitty doesn't like Charles. Hell, she'd been the first person to suggest him as a possible replacement, now that Moira had done the sensible thing and jumped ship- first for Virginia and then the stars, to hear her talk-but it's.. different. 

Kitty has known Charles since 4th grade, and while they hadn't been _friends_ , not exactly- Charles, until the last year or so, was too quiet by half, and they had run in different circles- but he had always struck her as one of those guys who was completely, ineffably, _decent_. Someone who would help you for no reward. 

He'd been a serious kid, but they all had been, the freaks and the geeks and the loners who inevitably gravitated to the sub-basement, so that was nothing new, but- it was like he could see. Like he knew that things could be better, that they didn't have to be satisfied with their lot- and it was weird, because Kitty likes to think of herself as a reasonably self-aware person, and she knows that at least 5 sevenths of this was merely adolescent angst, but- there was a look in his eyes, one that said that he ahd seen the outside world, and that staying here would- well, it would kill him, in the end. 

It's not an unfamiliar feeling. Kitty has spent her entire life knowing what the plan was. And- for Pete's sake, it sounds so _Victorian_ when you put it like that, and of course that wasn't the reality, not now, not in America, where _you could be anything you wanted if you worked hard enough_. 

And it's true. Technically, it's true. You _can_ be anything. The mistake people make is thinking that that means you _will_. 

They all have their lives planned out for them, their own little role to play in the hum of society, but Kitty has always thought- privately, because the very idea is so arrogant that she's scared to let it pas s her lips- that the real difference, the real thing that separates the Fishies from others isn't advanced analytical ability or obsessive natures, but that they are the ones who refuse to listen. 

Or maybe she's wrong. Maybe the football players and the cheerleaders feel it too- the oppressive, choking sensation of seeing the people you grew up with struggle and fail and being force to realise that, statistically speaking, you will never get out of here. 

(In the seventh grade, Kitty had had a teacher who, looking out at the packed, noisy room, had sighed and said, “Look, guys. I don't expect you all to go to college. Hell, I don't expect you all to finish high school. But I _do_ expect you to finish the seventh grade.”  
It had shocked Kitty, and then made her angry, because the thing was, it hadn't been a joke. Not really.) 

“Hey!” The voice drew her out of her reverie, and she glanced up from her notebook to see Charles standing in the doorway, Lehnsherr behind him like some kind of creepy bodyguard. 

“Can we have quiet, everyone?”

Kitty snorted. That hadn't worked for _Moira_ , how on earth did Charles think it was going to work for him?

He raised his fingers to his lips and blew a short, sharp whistle. 

The room was silent.

Ah. That's how. 

“Thanks everyone,” Charles said, his voice pitched below his normal speaking tones, so that everyone had to strain to hear. 

“All right, let's get this started, shall we? My name is Charles, in case you don't know, and I'll be your president this year. Welcome to the first meting of the Bridgetown High Advanced Math Society.”

Kitty's eyebrows shot up. The boy standing in front of her now was- different. Confidently smiling, his blue eyes crinkled at the edges. 

Apparently, in addition to growing six inches, Charles had also grown a spine over the summer. 

Glancing around the room, Kitty saw the roots of crushes forming in the eyes of several of the new ninth graders.   
_Great_. 

Everyone had had a crush on Moira, of course, but that was different. If you didn't have a crush on Moira, you were doing it wrong. Even Jean-Pierre would have given it a go, and JP embodies every negative stereotype that exists about gay guys and probably a few that haven't been invented yet.

Kitty had a sudden premonition of the next two years, and shuddered internally. She was never sure _how_ she had become the go-to agony aunt for heartbroken fourteen year olds- seriously, if she was going to be some kind of Love Oracle, she should be having a lot more sex- but it is what it is. 

“We've made a few changes, as those of you who've been here before will note- we have decided to begin admitting ninth graders on a trial basis, provided they act with the, erm, 'dignity and grace' that the community has come to expect from the math department here at Bridgetown.”  
He was immediately drowned out by a gale of laughter from the senior students. 

“Be that as it may,” Charles continued. “Tony Stark isn't here anymore to bail you guys out, and Mr Logan would like me to inform you that the school board takes absolutely _no_ responsibility for any destruction you may cause with supplies that may or may not have been lifted from the physics room or the chem stores, understood? This includes, but is not limited to: fireworks- yes, Jubillee, that was directed at you- computer viruses, illegal filesharing operations, _legal_ filesharing operations, hacking into markbook, and remotely changing Principal Fury's homepage to ScatLovers.com. If you break the law and are caught, you will be prosecuted.”

He rolled his eyes. “Now, with that out of the way- you have in front of you an information sheet you can bring to your parents, if you're into that sort of thing, as well as a permission form. This must be signed or adequately forged by Tuesday. Any questions? No? Good, then let's get started, guys.”

__________________________________________________________________________________________________

_October 21st, 2010_

erik: charles?

Dude

you there?

cxman: sorry  
yeah  
Raven was using her laptop and I left gchat open 

erik: so   
when you coming home?

cxman: sunday  
bus gets in at 4:30, I think  
then I'm walking to the Cassidy's

erik: nods  
how's Raven doing?

Cxman: she's got a performance tonight  
for her  
um  
thing

erik: her 'thing'?  
Dude  
is Raven a stripper now?

cxman: fuck you  
no  
she's doing cabaret  
dark cabaret. 

Erik: you have no idea what you just said, do you

cxman: not a clue  
probably aout fucking with social conventions  
she's good at that  
social conventions are a pile of shit  
except for the ones that make us cover our genitals in public  
those are good  
otherwise our cocks would get frostbite. 

erik: riiiiight

cxman: oh, hang on:   
“Cabaret proper had long associations with counter-culture and dealt with disturbing themes, as exemplified by The Threepenny Opera by Bertolt Brecht and Kurt Weill, with one of its best known songs "Mack the Knife" ("Moritat von Mackie Messer") which tells the story of a murderous anti-hero, or the 1933 song "Gloomy Sunday" ("Szomorú Vasárnap") by Hungarian composer Rezső Seress with the more recent urban legends which have grown up around it. It was therefore natural that later artists drew upon it for inspiration: Nico's 1974 album The End... is an early example of such influence, especially in songs such as "You Forgot To Answer" and "Secret Side", while influenced artists associated with goth and punk music specifically include Nina Hagen, Sex Gang Children and The Virgin Prunes.”  
Thank you, wikipedia.   
So it's like  
stuff that was influenced by Threepenny Opera   
and shit

erik: X)  
art fag. 

Cxman: fuck you  
and that's Arthur Fag to you, thank you very much.   
Duuude  
the wikipedia article on humans feels like its written by an alien  
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/human

erik: maybe it was

cxman: don't be stupid

erik: maybe wikipedia is actually, like, the hitchiker's guide to the galaxy sort of shit, only for aliens

cxman: the hitchiker's guide was for aliens

and that didn't even make sense

erik: whatever, Scully

cxman: I am not Scully!  
Why am I always Scully?

Erik: it's the hair  
your girlish figure  
your credulity

cxman: wanna fight, big man?

Erik: oh, you'd like that, wouldn't you?

Cxman: how are you this much of an asshole.   
Seriously  
how is it, like, genetically possible  
your dad must have been a cunt 

erik: O_O  
I'm sorry, would you like to repeat that?

Cxman: fuckkkk  
sorry  
I didn't mean it like that  
I need to think before I type   
sorry  
allow me a moment to stop deep-throating my foot.   
Ahem  
I meant because your mum's so nice  
that's all 

erik: that better be what you meant

cxman: it is  
sorry  
i owe you something  
a cookie?

Erik: you need to stop solving interpersonal problems with cookies.   
It can't be healthy. 

Cxman: but erik  
darling  
baby   
it's the only way i know how

erik: and blowjobs

cxman: fuck you

erik: you wish

cxman: at this point I would like to state that i ma highly uncomfortable with the amount of time you spend thinking about my sex life.   
It can't be healthy  
you need a girlfriend.

Erik: **facepalm**  
you sound like my mother  
you are too gay to give me that advice

cxman: oh no way fucker  
I'm enjoying this waaaaay too much  
maybe a nice Jewish girl  
make Edie proud  
:D :D :D :D 

erik: why am I friends with you

cxman: I've been asking myself that same question for years  
**years**

erik: haha very funny  
mama wants to know why you aren't coming back to our place  
she wants me to tell you that she's making fried sausage for dinner on Sunday  
it's really good 

cxman: i can't just live on your bedroom floor, you know  
it wouldnt be right

erik: why not?

tCxman: B|  
it's too hard on your mom   
she shouldn't have to take care of someone else's kid. 

Erik: I am so unimpressed right now  
you have no idea  
you're less work than I am  
considerably  
also, mom says if it would make you feel better  
you could pay rent   
:D

cxman: ...   
that's   
um  
wow  
i don't actually know wha tto say right now  
could yo be a jerk again?  
It would really help me get my bearings. 

Erik: aww  
poor widdle charles  
want me to kiss it better?  
No homo

cxman: asshole  
that's better. 

__________________________________________________________________________________________________

 _January 14th, 2011_

By the time Charles got in, Erik was already stretched out on his bed, the worn comforter pulled over his head. He stirred as Charles carefully closed the door.   
“Mmm? Charles?” He mumbled, as he scratched absently at his chin. “Whassgoinon?”

“I just got in,” Charles responded hoarsely. “Sorry for waking you up.” 

“It's alright,” he said. “How'd it go?”

“Good. Fine. No problems.”

Erik responded with an inquiring sound that sounded rather like a wounded giraffe.   
“We just signed some papers. It was all rather anticlimactic, really.”

“Told you,” Erik replied, sounding smugly satisfied. “No big deal.” 

Charles sighed and sat on the bed. “It was weird, actually. Like getting divorced from my parents.”

Erik frowned. “What do you mean?”

Charles' laugh was soft and watery. “I had to sign a paper affirming that we had 'irreconcilable differences', and that I understood that my mother was therefore refusing to support me financially. It was weird.”

“Well, it's not like they could just say that she is a total fucking-”

“- _Erik_. Please. Not now.”

“Sorry.” He lapsed into sleepy silence. 

“How's Edie?”

“Tired. She goes into the hospital next Tuesday.”

“I know.”

“I was just reminding you.”

“You scared?” 

“No.”

“Really?”

There was a pause, and then- “Scared shitless. What if something's wrong?”

“Then we'll deal with it.” 

“How?”

Charles sighed. “The same way people always do.”

“Booze and cigarettes?”

“Shut up.”   
“Make me.”

Charles ignored that. “If there's something wrong, then we'll fix it. Find a way to help her. And if we can't, we'll sell everything we own and move to the Caribbean. Bring Edie with us, of course.”

“Of course,” Even in the dark, Charles could hear Erik's smirk. 

“I can't believe we only have 

Charles began pulling off his sweater and jeans. 

“Charles?”

“Yeah?”

“Are you okay?” 

Charles paused, midway through undoing his belt. “No,” he said quietly. “But I will be.”

Erik nodded, and pulled the covers tighter around his neck. 

“I bought Fritos on my way home.”

“This is why we let you stay here.”

Charles raised an eyebrow. 

“Also I pay rent.”

“Also that.”  
__________________________________________________________________________________________________  
 _June 3rd, 2011_

“She's resting,” the nurse said with a tired smile. “You should let her sleep.”

Erik looked down. “She said she wanted to see me. Please, Carol. You know it would make her feel better.”

“Erik, regular visiting hours do apply to you, too.”

“I work during regular visiting hours. Or I'm at school.” 

“No Charles today?” she asked curiously. Over the last few months, Erik and Charles had become regular features on Ward 3C., and the nurses had immediately fallen in love with Charles, whose smile and naturally deferential attitude towards those in authority had a way of endearing him to middle-aged women. Erik wouldn't put it past one of them to wrap Charles up i a blanket and kidnap him when Erik wasn't looking. 

“He's working an extra shift at McKinney's. He'll be by around 11.” 

Carol crossed her arms and sighed. “Go on, then, but if she's still awake when I come by on my rounds,” 

“I know, I know,” Erik mumbled. “You'll kill me yourself.”

“You bet I will. Now get your butt in there, young man.” 

Erik smiled. “Thanks, Carol.” 

He pushed the door open carefully. The room was full, and all of the beds were dark. The steady pulse of machines echoed in the recycled air. 

Erik eased himself into the plastic seat beside the third bed. As he did so, his mother stirred. 

“Erik?” she rasped, “Is that you?”

“It's me, Mama. Charles is coming by later, too.”

His mother smiled in the dim light. “Good, that's good.”

She pulled the cord above the bed, casting a sickly fluourescent light across the room. 

“How are you doing, Erik?”

Erik smiled. “Shouldn't I be asking you that question?”

His mother waved a hand dismissively, the effect only slightly hampered by the IV line in the back of her hand. 

“Bah. Me? I'm old. I'm sick. What more do you want?”

Erik smirked. ”You're not old, Mama.”

”Surely I get to be the judge of that.” She reached out and threaded her hand into her son's.

”How was school today?”

”Good. We' started reading _The Catcher in the Rye_ in English class. ”

”Is it any good?”

”Not really. The main character is kind of an asshole.”

His mother laughed, a deep, throaty laugh that quickly turned into a cough. Erik rubbed her back. 

”I'm surprised you don't feel more sympathy for him, then.” she teased. 

”Are you even allowed to say that?”

”I'm your mother. I'm the _only_ one allowed to say it.”

Erik smiled, and fell silent. 

”Erik?” His mother asked, softly. ”Is everything all right?”

Erik bit his lip. What could he say? That he was tired, bone-tired, but that he couldn't sleep? That every waking moment was spent calculating and evaluating the worst case scenario? That he was terrified that he was going to lose everyone, his mother and Charles?

”I think I'm in love with Charles,” is what he blurted out instead. 

Woah. He had not been expecting that. 

His mother was silent, reaching a hand up to rub her eyes wearily. ”Yes,” she said. ”I know. Forgive me if I don't dance with joy.”

Erik's stomach clenched. ”Are you- are you mad?”

His mother smiled slightly. ”No. I'm not. It- this isn't what I wanted for you, Erik. It's not what any mother wants for their child. The world is not a very nice place sometimes, Erik.”

” I know”

”Do you? I wonder. It- it's hard enough for people like us, Erik. I don't want to see you hurt. I want to see you- you're such a brilliant young man. I want to see you grow and succeed and thrive. I want to see you marry and get a job and give me beautiful grandchildren. And it's not going to be easy on you, and I worry. A mother worries.”

She reached out to trace his face with her rough, dry fingertips.   
”You say you love him. He loves you, of course.”

“What?” Erik sat up straighter. ”He does?”

His mother's smile grew broader. ”Of course he does. He's loved you since you were fourteen. How could he not?”

Erik felt his jaw drop. 

”It's going to be hard, but I love you. I will always love you. This is not what I would have chosen for you, but the fates rarely consult a mother on her wishes. So all I can say is that you should be good to him.”

”I will be, Mama.”

”Come here,” she said, patting the edge of her bed. 

Erik sat down, and she pressed him against her chest. 

”Look at you,” she murmured. ”Such a strong young man you've become. So brilliant. I'm so proud of you.” 

”I love you, Mama.”

”I know you do, Erik,” she whispered. ”I know you do.”


	4. Chapter 4

_June 29th, 2011_

“Alright everyone, do you have your passes? Yes? Good, make sure you keep them with you at all times- meal tickets will be distributed at appropriate intervals, to be perfectly honest, I don't trust you guys not lose them- your bus tickets are here, and your luggage claim stickers are on the back of your passes. If anyone has not handed in your medical consent form, you are _not getting on this bus_. This is the last call for stupid questions- we will be stopping in about an hour to buy snacks and take a bathroom break, if you choose to get off the bus, go in pairs. We don't need a repeat of last year. Now, are we ready?”

The group made a vague affirmative drone. Charles smirked. “Get on the bus, then.”

He turned and smiled at Erik, who squinted in the sun, his eyes not quite hiding his disappointment. 

“You sure you're not coming? It's not too late.”

They both knew it was. 

Erik rolled his eyes. “One of us has to be responsible now and again, Charles.”

Charles bit his lip and shot Erik a reproachful look. He hadn't wanted to go, either; Erik and Edie had made him. It wouldn't be right to send the club off without their president. 

“Sorry,” Erik muttered. 

Charles continued to stare at him. 

Erik laughed. “Oh, for fuck's sakes, Charles, I said I was sorry. Stop looking like an injured puppy- it won't work on me. You actually have to use logic.”

 

Charles struck an affronted pose. “Well, I _beg_ your pardon,” He said, affecting a Southern drawl. “But I'm not sure I like what you're implying.” 

Erik shoved him in the shoulder, and Charles bounced off, giggling. 

“Last chance,” Charles said, the setting sun reflecting off his pale, freckled skin. The overpowering heat was baking his back, and the collar of his blue polo was damp with sweat. 

 

Erik sighed. “Sorry, man. Call me from Chicago, yeah?”

“Of course I will.” He glanced around and reached an arm out to touch his chest, changing it at the last minute to a manly slap on the back. 

The sound of the horn prevented any further conversation. 

“I gotta go,” Charles said. 

“Yeah, you do. See you.”

“Only if I don't see you first.”

“How are you that lame?” Erik called after him as he climbed the steps and the glass doors whooshed shut. 

Charles laughed to himself as he found his seat. 

Charles is awoken from his nap by the incessant shake of his shoulder. He grumbles and turns over. 

“What is it, Kitty?”

Kitty, the pale oval of her face gleaming in the dim light, scowls and opens her mouth. 

Whatever she is about to say is drowned out by the horn's blare. 

________________________________________________________________________________________________________  
 **7 Missed Alerts**

From: Erik  
20:06:13  
Hey Charles where r you? Did you get to Chicago yet?  


From: Erik  
20:09:13  
Answer your phone, asshole.

From: Erik  
20:15:12  
Guess you fell asleep. Fucker. I hope the freshmen are drawing a moustache on your face as we speak.

From: Erik  
20:22:18  
Charles, answer your phone or mama's gonna kill you.

From: Erik  
20:23:07  
With a knife. She will kill you WITH A KNIFE.

From: Erik  
20:26:32  
Why isn't Kitty answering her phone? Are you guys having an orgy or something?

 

From: Erik  
20:40:45  
Charles?  
________________________________________________________________________________________________________  
 _June 30th, 2011_

_Riiiing_

_Riing_

_Riing_

__-Yes, may I speak to Edie Eisenhardt, please?

Erik swallowed dryly and glanced at the clock.  
It was 3 AM. 

“She's not here at the moment- who's calling?”

-This is Dr Anne Bryant at Chicago General- I'm afraid I really must insist-”

“-She's in the hospital. I'm her son. What's going on?”

The voice on the other end hesitated. 

-We have a gentleman here with your mother listed as his next of kin- is there any way to contact her?

Erik's heart stopped. “I- No, I- Charles Xavier? Is that his name?”

...

They transfer him the next day. His condition, they say, is critical but stable- and between him and Mama, Erik forgets to go home for nearly a week, the blur of bedsides and the slightly acidic smell of hospital rooms running into each other. He eats a few times, when Mama makes him, showers in the hospital bathroom, and spends his nights in the hard, plastic chair by Charles' bedside. 

They've induced a coma- there have been two surgeries already, and more when they can determine what function he still has as the swelling goes down- the better to recover from possible spinal shock, and his body is surrounded by metal frames and pulleys and ties that look like nothing so much as a  
medieval torture device. 

Erik's nights are quiet, and cold, the sound of his heartbeat and the reassuring beep of the monitors and whoosh of his respirator. 

Mama is doing better, they're talking about letting her go home- at this point, outpatient treatment will be as effective as in, although she is not cleared to go back to work, if she even has a job to go back to, and Erik feels guilty at the slight twinge of apprehension he feels at the thought of his mama back in their apartment, because what if something goes wrong and Erik isn't there or- worse- he _is_ there and he can't fix it and something happens and it's _all his fault_. 

Eventually, he has to go back to work. His bosses are sympathetic, but there's nothing they can do- Erik has to go to work, he has to be there if he wants to have any hope of attending college, and life begins to approach a new kind of normal. 

The day begins at 5 AM with a run and a shower, then the breakfast shift at the coffee shop across the street. Then the pool until noon, arriving in the locker room still smelling slightly of bitter coffee and lard; five hours spent there, then the evening shift at McKinney's, a trip home to make sure that Edie has dinner and has taken her meds, before depositing himself in the plastic chair next to Charles' hospital bed with a stack of applications and comic books in front of him until 10:30 or until they kick him out. Home, where he falls into his narrow bed in a bedroom that is far too quiet, and into a brutal restless sleep. 

Finally, Charles wakes up. They have taken out the respirator, although an oxygen canula remains firmly attached to his nose. 

His blue eyes are dim, confused; their drugged haze clear in his starkly pale face framed by greasy hair. 

“Erik?” he rasps softly, his voice harsh and cracked, his dry lips bleeding slightly at the first movmeent they have had in weeks. 

“Hey,” Erik responds, feeling strangely awkward. “How are you feeling?”

Charles meets his eyes, and even in their drugged confusion Erik can see the terror he is trying to hide. 

“Erik, I can't feel my legs.” He says the words slowly, wonderingly, as though tasting something bitter for the very first time. 

“I can't feel my legs.”  
________________________________________________________________________________________________________  
 _February 23rd, 2012_

Raven comes home from college. 

He tells her not to- there's nothing she could do, and there's no point in her missing out on her studies because her brother is a-

becasue he-

because he can't-

because _this_ happened. 

He's not going to walk again. 

Oh sure, they don't say it like that. They tell him about the damage done, about the likelihood of recovery- but he knows. They press instruments into him on a daily basis, at first- the early days are crucial, and the scope of his injury was changing daily, or so they sais- and there were three constants:

no movement

no hot or cold

no sharp or blunt

only pressure. 

They pressed down, hard enough to hurt, hard enough to bruise, and all he felt- all he would feel now- is a faint press, and only along the inside of his right leg. The rest is a No Man's Land wherein sensation disappears and casual touches develop the meaning of a minefield.  
There are titanium screws holding him together, pressing pieces of his T6 vertebrae into place, and he knows it could be worse, really he does- Kitty had been hit from the side, and although she would live, there was a plate in her neck and an empty space where her right leg used to be- he can't help but want to scream.

Everyone is so damnably, bloodlessly _helpful_. They want to help him find an appropriate wheelchair, want him to learn to transfer, to sit up in bed without the use of his lower abdominals and with the deadweight of his broken lower half pressing against him. They want him to go back to school, to learn to hop curbs and short steps and turn tightly and precisely. They push him out of his wheelchair and onto the floor until he makes his way back up himself. They want him to learn to evacuate his bowels- the sphincter is a reflex, thank Christ for small mercies, so at least he's not going to shit himself- and clear his urinary tract, to shower and to check for pressure sores. 

They want him to _grieve_. 

The thing is, Charles is young, in body if not in spirit, and- his life has barely _started_ yet. He's grieving for the loss of something he has never had. 

Unbidden, his mind flashes back to Erik kissing his cheek. How is he supposed to show them? He can't _walk_. 

He knows Erik has applied to college. Knows, because he made him- screamed at him until his voice was hoarse and tears of exhaustion and anger dripped down his cheeks. Erik was not going to ruin his  
life over this. Erik was going to get out. 

Charles has been in the rehab centre for six months. They're going to send him home soon, he knows. There's no point in going back to school, not this year- not that _school_ , for that matter, Bridgetown being one of the many noble instutions that has studiously ignored the Americans With Disabilities Act- and seriously, the next time someone excuses the inaccessibility of a building by saying 'it`s old', Charles is going to scream or snap “Yes, of course, because as we all know, the wheelchair wasn't invented until 2006.”

Besides, he can't be there without Erik. And Erik will be gone. 

Raven has offered him a place in her apartment. He thinks he'll go, just for a while. He can take his courses via correspondence, or something. He's not giving up. Not yet. 

Some days, though, it feels like he should. Because this isn' t life. Not really. He still has painkillers- he could take them, all of them, and then he would be _free_ -

he's forgotten what it feels like to walk. 

What it feels like to have pavement beneath his feet. 

He's been doing better, really he had, but when he realises that he puts his head between his knees and he sobs for a good fifteen minutes. 

He doesn't want to do this. 

He can't do this. 

He has to do this. 

 

...

Erik wins a scholarship to CalTech. He isn't going to take it- Edie's not doing well, again, and Charles is- well, as good as he ever will be- but he changes his mind. 

Charles will never know what Edie said to him. If it was as effective as Charles' screaming match, the hateful words bubbling form his lips until Erik reaches over and presses his lips against his own, choking off the stream of anger and self-loathing with chapped lips. 

His shock makes him silent when Erik pulls away. “I- Charles, I love you.”  
It hits Charles like a bullet. “No, you don't.”

Erik looks puzzled. “What do you-”

Charles marches on. “I fucking loved you since the day we first met, and this- now is when you tell me? I haven't had an erection in _six months_ , Erik. I- I can't- this. I can't do this. We could have, we could have had, but- no. No. We're not doing this.”

“Charles, I-”

“-No. This. You don't get to decide this. Erik- I'm not going to be the person who stops you from being something, do you understand me? You could- you're going to be amazing. I can _see_ it.”  
His voice is choked with barely repressed sobs, his breath coming in harsh pants, and each word hurts as he forces it from between his lips. 

“But- Erik, I'll be okay. No matter what- I- I always have been, I'll find a way. I'm not going to stay here, you understand? I'll- I'll figure something out. But you- Erik, if you don't leave now, then- we can't let that happen. I won't let you.”

“Why do you have to be such a fucking martyr, Charles?” Erik's voice is low and flat, anger rendering him cold in its intensity. 

Charles is silent. He doesn't know how to explain that he can see it, can _feel_ it, that it will be so much easier on the both of them if Erik will just hate him, because Charles _can't_ , that if they love each other they will destroy each other. 

 

(He will realise, later, that this is the irrefutable logic of the 17 year old, but at the time, it is a truth so basic and s painful as to mark itself on his soul.) 

Erik leaves, and Charles stops taking his calls. 

Sometime in September of the next year, he de-friends him on Facebook.

________________________________________________________________________________________________________  
 _September 17th, 2015_

“ _Erik!_ ”

Erik starts, and lifts up his head. Sometime during the previous twelve hours, he had fallen asleep at his desk, and a sheet of paper is currently cemented to his left cheek-bone by a thin trail of drool.  
He pulls at it absently. “What the fuck, Azazel?”

“Someone's here to see you. They said they were a friend of yours.” The boy shrugged, as if to convey the sheer ludicrousness of that statement. 

“Oh,” Erik said absently. “Right.”  
Half of his brain is still asleep, and at least a quarter is still in biophysics. 

“He's at the door.”

“Okay,” Erik said, his brain finally catching up with the conversation. “Tell him I'll be right out.”

He stretches, popping a few bones in his back, and pushes himself up from his flimsy wooden desk chair. 

“Who is it?” He calls as he shuffles out of their shared room. 

He pauses when he gets into the hallway. A man is sitting in his doorway- brown haired and broad shouldered, with a ginger scruff. 

Sitting in a sleek silver wheelchair.

He stops short. “Ch-Charles?”

The grin the man turns on him is blinding. “Erik.”

“What are you _doing_ here?”

He shrugged. “I seem to be a student, actually,” He says, pretending to consult his ID. 

Erik rolls his eyes. “I meant _here_ , you asshole. I haven't seen you in years.”  
The _you left me_ is implied. 

His smile dims slightly. “I- yeah. Erik. I'm sorry. I- I should have- I was a bit of a mess, for a while. I had some shit to deal with.”

“Where did you go?”

He laughs quietly. “I went to stay with Raven for a while. Then- I worked, actually. And one thing led to another, and it just sort of- took me a while.”

“I- how did you find me?”

Charles laughed. “It's slightly worrying how easy you are to Google stalk. You should probably look into that. There aren't a lot of Erik Lehnsherrs in the world.”

“Well, there's the Bond villain.”

“Other than the Bond villain, it's pretty much just you. And you come up first on Google.”

“Bad SEO for the Bond villain, really.”

“Yeah,” Charles says. He turns in his chair and begins to rummage around the back.

“What?”

When he turns back, he's lightly flushed. “I brought Dunkaroos.”

“Seriously?” Erik smirks. That shouldn't be adorable. 

“Yeah. I thought it- that was it, you know. That's when I started to, you know. With you.”

Erik felt his own face heat up. “Yeah. Well. You know. I just thought you were kind of adorable, really.”

Charles nods seriously. “I was, in fact, adorable.”

“As long as you're aware.”

“Oh,I'm very aware. And I have it on good authority that that remains the case.”

Erik rolled his eyes. “Yeah. Well. Glad to see that a healthy ego isn't one of you rproblems.”

Charles smiled. “Do you- I checked, you don't seem to have- could we try? Again, maybe?”

Erik bit his lip, then leaned in deliberately. 

The kiss that followed wasn't great, or earth shattering, but it was _comfortable_ , like coming home. 

“You can still have sex, right?” Erik asked when they pulled away. 

Charles punched him in the shoulder. Hard. 

Erik probably deserved that. “Yes, you asshole, I can still have sex. I'm glad to see that you haven't changed.”

“You mean I'm still a bastard.”

“Yeah.”

“It's your favourite thing about me.”

Charles rolled his eyes and tried to hide his grin. 

“Yeah,” he said. “It is.”


End file.
